Jo Beverley (7 page)

Whatever the cost to her or him, her siblings must have security and hope for the future. Laura must be saved.

Weaving Rachel's fine hair into a plait, Meg told herself that Lord Saxonhurst was getting exactly what he'd bargained for. A hardworking, honest, dutiful wife.

Her sister was one long wriggle. “Is it true that you'll be a countess, Meg?”

“I suppose so. Sit still.”

“I wish I were going to be a countess. Will you go to Court?”

“I have no idea.” Pushing aside that terrifying thought, Meg tied a tight ribbon around the end. “There. You'll do. Go start the fire.”

Laura was nearly as bad. “You'll have robes, won't you? And have to take part in state occasions.”

“I dearly hope not. Let me fasten your buttons.”

Laura stood with her back to Meg. She'd chosen a pretty dress far too flimsy for such a day, but Meg hadn't the heart to make her change. She'd be warm enough with her woolen cloak over.

“What if the king dies? He could, couldn't he? Then there'd be a coronation, and you'd be there!”

“Laura, you can't wish for the poor man's death!”

“I'm not. I'm just thinking.”

Meg's sensible gown buttoned at the front, so she fastened it herself. “Can you see me in velvet and ermine? I'll be the sort of countess who runs an economical household and rears happy, healthy children. Come on. Let's get breakfast.”

As she stirred the porridge, Meg held the vision of happy, healthy children in her mind as a shield against the terrifying vision of robes and state occasions.

They ate the porridge with salt and heavily watered milk. She was sure an earl's household had cream and sugar in abundance, and that was what she was paying for with her freedom.

When they'd finished and washed the bowls, she made sure everyone was neat and warmly dressed, and led them to St. Margaret's Church.

She thought she had herself completely in hand, but at the sight of the church—where she went every Sunday for service—her feet froze to the ground.

Marriage.

She was about to give not just her body but her life into a stranger's hands. She would no longer have privacy, or be free to come and go as she pleased. She would be giving him power over her family. . . .

“What's the matter?” Laura asked.

“There's no carriage. What if there's no one there?” The outer doors stood open, but there was no hint of anyone being around.

“No one there? Why wouldn't he be there? He asked you to marry him, didn't he?” A hint of suspicion rang in her voice.

“Yes, of course.”

Jeremy said, “They couldn't keep horses standing in this weather, Meg.”

“I'll go peep—” Meg seized Richard's coat before he could run across the road.

“No, love. It's just silly bridal nerves. Jeremy's right. I'm sure he's there waiting.”

What folly to hesitate. How private or free would any of them be as paupers on the streets, or residents of the workhouse?

And she mustn't forget Sir Arthur's vile plans for Laura.

She forced a smile. “After all, I don't expect to be a bride again, and I intend to enjoy all the stages, including nerves and watery tears!”

“Silly,” Laura said, but with a relieved laugh. “You never cry!”

“I've never been married before.” It came out more grimly than she wanted, so she grinned at her brothers. “Gentlemen, prepare to catch me when I faint!”

Resolutely smiling, she led them up the stone steps into the church vestibule, into the familiar smell of musty hymn books and remembered incense. Another set of doors stood between her and the nave, concealing her future. With only the slightest hesitation, she opened one and walked through.

For a moment the contrast between daylight and gloom blinded her. Then, in the weak winter light shooting through stained-glass windows, she saw people standing near the altar. The church clock began to sound eleven and they all turned.

Six men, two women.

She couldn't make out details.

She had frozen in the doorway, and Laura pushed her
gently forward out of the way. “Which one is he?” she whispered, nothing but excitement in her voice.

Meg walked forward, walking as slowly as she dared down the long aisle. Which one was he? As her eyes adjusted and her nerves steadied, she eliminated Reverend Bilston and a few other men who were clearly servants.

That left two gentlemen, one brown haired and one blond.

Dirty yellow! What a way to describe that elegant arrangement of dusky gold curls. She wasn't close enough to see his eyes. She was quite close enough, however, to see that he was tall, handsome, elegant, and terrifyingly everything one would expect a young earl to be.

He was no desperate charity case! How had the
sheelagh
managed this?

He was looking back at her, assessing her in a quick, intelligent way. She searched his features for any sign of shock or disappointment. All she saw was a sort of interest marked by a sudden, charming smile.

He was clearly slave to the magic.

She stopped as if a wall had sprung up in front of her.

It wasn't right.

No matter what her need, it wasn't
right
to bewitch someone like this. No good could come of it.

“I'm sorry.” She turned and pushed past her startled family, hurrying back down the aisle.

Someone had closed the door. In her panic, her cold fingers fumbled the latch. Then a hand appeared, pressed firmly against the dark wood, preventing her from opening it.

“Miss Gillingham, please don't run away.”

He must have run to stop her, but his voice was beautifully modulated, and used—consciously she was sure—to soothe. It didn't help. Susie had said the earl could easily find a bride, and it was clearly true.

It was all magic, evil magic.

“Please, my lord . . .”

His hand did not move. It was beautifully made, with long, elegant fingers and buffed nails. An earl's hand.

His large body loomed behind her, placing her in
shadow. Without looking, she knew he must be close to a foot taller than she.

Lacking any choice, she turned against the oaken door to look up at him, grateful for the shadows. She couldn't tell the truth—she could never speak of the
sheelagh.
“It is just so ridiculous, my lord. I thought I could. But now . . .”

“But now you need a moment to collect yourself.” He moved back slightly, and smiled again, that charming, practiced smile. “Come, sit in this pew with me, Miss Gillingham, and we will discuss it.”

He took her gloved hand and led her to the nearest row of seats. She couldn't think of a reason to object. As she sat down she saw Jeremy, Laura, Richard, and Rachel watching wide-eyed. With a jolt, she remembered why she had to do this.

The twins looked frightened, and Laura looked bewildered. Jeremy, however, was beginning to look pugnacious. She found a smile to reassure them all, but feared it was all wobbly.

“Miss Gillingham,” the earl said, sitting beside her on the polished seat, “I assure you I am not so terrifying.”

His eyes
were
yellow, or at least a strange pale hazel ringed around the iris with dark brown. More to the point, they were powerful. She didn't know what made eyes powerful, but they were. Even with light brown brows and lashes, they shone intensely and sparkled with energy.

She looked away, away at a memorial plaque on the wall—to the Merryam family, one of whom had been Lord Mayor in the last century—trying desperately to sort through her thoughts. “You're not terrifying, my lord. Far from it. That is why I wonder at your wanting to marry me.”

“Susie explained my predicament.”

She had to look at him. Unfortunately, he was just as handsome as before. “It seems a foolish reason to tie yourself to me for life.”

“You think my word of honor a foolish thing?”

She felt herself color. “No, my lord. But is it so impossible to admit to your grandmother that you have been unable to keep your promise?”

“Yes. Completely. Come now, Miss Gillingham, let me turn the tables. What possible objection can you have to me?”

His easy self-confidence made her want to roll her eyes, but he was right. She had no rational objection. How could she say she didn't want to marry him because he was victim of a magic spell? Or that she was dismayed because the bargain would be so unequal? That she wished he were grotesque and drooling.

“You are very tall,” she said weakly.

“Not
very.
And sitting down, the difference in our heights is not so obvious. I will try to sit a lot.” Then he challenged her. “I thought we had an agreement, Miss Gillingham. A promise.”

“I did add that we would have to find each other congenial, my lord.”

“I find you congenial.”

“How can you? You do not know me.”

“I like the fact that you have these nervous doubts.”

“What?”

“If you'd marched in here and said your vows without a flutter, Miss Gillingham, I would have been concerned. After all,
I
am somewhat nervous. But it won't be hard for two reasonable people to rub along together, especially when cushioned by wealth. And, of course, I will take care of your siblings.”

It was a trump card and he played it without flourish, but she knew he had played it deliberately.

“Won't you introduce them to me?”

There was no way to refuse, and so Meg gestured them over.

The twins were wary, but in a few moments of casual conversation became adoring.

Laura was awkward, but he soon had her blushing.

Meg watched these easy conquests with misgiving, and was pleased that Jeremy remained stiff. “My lord,” he said, “Meg doesn't have to marry you if she doesn't wish to. We can make do.”

“I'm sure you can. You all look like capable, hardworking people. But all our lives will be made more comfortable by this arrangement, and I will be eternally grateful.”

He then began to converse with them, asking about their schooling and interests. Under this skillful handling, soon even Jeremy had relaxed, seduced by casual references to the earl's own time at King's College, Cambridge.

Meg should have been glad that her family was shedding their anxieties, and in most ways she was, but she also felt threatened. The Earl of Saxonhurst had the confidence of a man who'd never been crossed since the day he was born. He was wickedly charming, and he knew it. Knew how to use it. She'd felt the effects when he'd talked with her so briefly—almost a warmth melting her fears and doubts.

It was unreasonable to object and yet she did. She felt as if
she
were being
spellbound.

So! She almost gasped aloud.

That certainly served her right. He was spellbound by the
sheelagh,
and she was in danger of being spellbound by him.

Watching him, she could almost see his charm like ahalo . . .

Then she shook her head at the fancy. It was just a shaft of sun through one of the church's colored windows. But no. That was not all it was. She couldn't deny his effect, or the panic it stirred in her.

He was too much, too much man for mousy Meg Gillingham.

But she had no choice.

He turned to her at last, assessing her. Clearly he decided she'd had time to settle her nerves, for he raised her to her feet. He believed that she wouldn't resist anymore, and he was right. It was simply a matter of need, however, not inclination. Her family desperately needed his help.

She truly did wish he'd turned out to be an ugly eccentric. She'd be much happier with her fate.

In moments, they were standing in front of the vicar.

Thin, white-haired Reverend Bilston looked at her with concern. He had known her most of her life and buried her parents only three months before. “Are you quite recovered, Meg? There is no need to rush, you know. The license will be valid tomorrow or next week. If you are at all uncertain . . .”

She glanced at the earl again and saw that he would not pressure her anymore. He had rolled the dice and now merely watched to see how they would lie.

Laura, Laura, Laura.

Having fortified herself with that incantation, Meg smiled at the vicar. “It was just an attack of nerves, Reverend. I am quite ready now.”

After a slight, concerned pause, Reverend Bilston began to recite the service. For Meg, the time for questions was over, and she made all the appropriate responses, letting herself be carried along the course she had decided on. Nothing had changed, after all, except that the earl was not an object of pity, and it would be strange indeed to regret that. . . .

Then he was turning her toward him.

They were man and wife!

“Now, now,” he said calmly, clearly seeing her flare
of panic. “The worst is over. Thank you, Lady Saxonhurst.” And he kissed her hand close by the ring he'd placed there.

She was suddenly, blindingly grateful that he had not kissed her lips. But, heaven help her, if she wasn't ready to be kissed, how could she face the coming night?

He studied her a moment, then smiled. “I'm sure these doubts and fears are quite normal, but do try not to let your imagination run away with you, my dear. Now, let us sign the register and have this done.”

As soon as the formalities were complete, the earl turned to her family. “Welcome! I have no brothers and sisters, you know, so I am delighted by an instant family.”

“Wait until you get to know them, my lord,” Meg said.

At her mild joke, he flashed her a look of surprised approval. It felt strangely like the lick of a flame.

Warming, but dangerous.

She hastily turned to accept the good wishes of all around.

Jeremy was still watchful, but a glowing Laura ran over to hug Meg. “I think this is all
wonderful
!”

The earl claimed a kiss on the cheek, then gave her into the care of his secretary. “Owain, take especial care of my new sister.”

Owain Chancellor, with his brown hair and square face, was such a pleasant-looking,
ordinary
-looking gentleman. Meg wished she was in his care, not that of her handsome husband.

Then she noticed that the twins were looking up at the earl with their curious look. Oh dear.

“Do you have robes?” Rachel asked.

“My earl's robes? Yes. And a coronet. Your sister will have them, too.”

Richard demanded, “Will I?”

“Not unless you earn them for yourself. Which is more than I did.”

“Have you met the king?” Rachel asked.

“Not recently. He's too unwell for visitors.”

“But you must have met the prince,” Richard said. “Is he really, really fat?”

“Very. Now, let's be on our way. A luncheon awaits.”

“What's to eat?” The twins said it in unison, with the true fervor of ten-year-olds who'd been on short rations.

“Wait and see.” The earl tucked Meg's hand into the crook of his arm and led her toward the door. The twins instantly bracketed them—Richard at the earl's side, Rachel at Meg's, like sheep dogs making sure that their charges wouldn't stray.

Meg fought tears. How frightened they must have been since losing their parents! Surely this must all turn out to be an improvement.

The twins were never easily silenced. “Will there be ham, sir?”

“Goose?”

“Cake?”

“Mince pies?”

“Nuts?”

“Oranges?”

“Missed your Christmas dinner, did you?” the earl asked indulgently. “There'll be whatever you want that we can find. We can't do magic, however, so the goose will have to wait.”

“Ices?” both twins said at once.

The earl halted to turn back to the servants. “I assume we can produce ices?”

“Gunter's may have some, milord, though it's not the time of year for them.”

“Find out.” And he continued out into the sunshine.

“There's no need,” Meg protested. “It's winter!”

“But no need not to, winter or no. This is our wedding celebration, and my birthday, and I like ices, too.”

“You'll spoil them.”

He smiled down at her. “I'm sure you'll prevent me.”

That was all very well, but Meg feared that preventing the Earl of Saxonhurst from doing anything would be like preventing the Thames from flowing to the sea.

Three elegant carriages had appeared, drawn by fine, steaming horses. Each horse was protected by a heavy, emblazoned cloth in the same blue and gold worn by the liveried servants letting down the steps. Each carriage bore a gilded crest on the door.

He really was an earl! Meg hadn't exactly doubted it, but she'd not quite believed it either.

In moments, he was handing her into one and settling beside her on the deeply padded, blue brocade seat. When Richard and Rachel didn't follow, however, she snapped out of the enchantment and looked out of the window.

The earl tugged her back. “Owain will take care of them all. What do you think we're up to? The slave trade?”

“Of course not.”

“So, relax and enjoy your wedding day. I hope neither of us have another.”

That startled her. Thus far, she'd only thought of the immediate, of getting this done so that Laura would be safe, so they would all have the means of decent survival. But marriage was for all eternity.

Oh dear.

She made herself meet his eyes. “I'll try, my lord.”

“Good.” But then, as the carriage moved off, he drew her close, his intention clear.

Meg instinctively braced her arms to hold him off.

His brows rose. “You object to kisses?”

“Anyone could be watching!”

“We're in a closed carriage on an empty street, but I'll draw the blinds if you wish.”

He had every right to kiss her, but . . . She tried for an honest explanation. “It's all so sudden, my lord. We may be man and wife, but you are still a stranger.”

“We certainly
are
man and wife, but I understand.” He moved back, leaning in his corner, legs stretched out. “Am I to assume that you won't feel ready for more intimate attentions by tonight?”

Meg looked away, her cheeks burning. “I will do my duty, my lord.”

“To the devil with duty. We're wed till death us do part, so I'm sure consummation can wait a night or two.”

Hearing neither disgust nor annoyance, Meg glanced back. She understood men to be somewhat greedy in their appetites. But then, of course, he didn't feel that way about her.

Why should he?

Any more than she felt that way about him.

Though she did feel something, she had to admit. Whatever it was, it was not at all comfortable.

“You look so very agitated,” he said with that devastating twinkle in his eye. “I should warn you that maidenly flusters are often quite stimulating to men. The wide eyes, the heated cheek . . .”

His indulgent tone put her on her mettle. “Men suffer from a hunting instinct, I see.”

His brows rose. “Hunting?”

“Blushes and big eyes being like the smell of the prey to them.”

He laughed. “A novel notion, but likely true. Men can be very predatory.”

She suspected his flash of strong, white teeth was deliberate and wanted, so desperately, to dent his confidence. “Predators are not very discriminating, though, are they, my lord? Any prey will do.”

“Not at all. The hawk in search of rabbits doesn't snatch a hedgehog.”

“Am I rabbit, then?”

“I am very much coming to doubt it.”

She felt an absurd warmth. “Good. I can be quite prickly.”

“So I see.” Still at his ease, his lids lowered in a way that started a beat of panic in her chest. “I should warn you, my dear countess, that danger intrigues me, and I enjoy a good hunt.”

“Pity the poor hedgehog, then, who won't.”

After a moment, he said, “I am pondering the image of a hedgehog hunt. . . .”

And she couldn't help but laugh with him at the absurdity. At that moment, she felt comfort ease into her, pushing away panic. She could talk to this man. Match wits with him. That was something. That was a great deal.

Then she realized some of the comfort might be physical. “This coach is very warm.”

He bent to move the carpet on the floor, showing tiles. “They're kept heated and put in place before we use it.”

Meg couldn't think of what to say about such an
extraordinary indulgence, but she had to unclasp her cloak and push it off her shoulders.

He smiled. “A hedgehog hunt would be a slow hunt, but there is nothing wrong with that.”

“It would be no hunt at all, and you know it.”

“But think of the spines. The hunter would want the creature to unroll, to cease being wary. Perhaps it is the hunter's skill to make that happen.” He reached out, and soft as a feather, stroked her cheek. “To make the quarry welcome its own end. . . .”

Meg couldn't help inching away. “This is not truly a hunt.”

“But you have turned it into one.” His finger touched her ear, tracing the sensitive edge, the faint rasping sound so loud it made her shiver. She was pressed back against the corner squabs now, with nowhere else to go.

“I desire you, my wife.”

“You can't possibly—”

“But you refuse me. Therefore I must hunt. Which means, I must seduce you.”

“Seduce!” She found an extra inch to retreat.

He caught her earlobe between two fingers and tugged. “Seduction is sanctioned within marriage, you know.”

She couldn't help it. She twitched sideways, away from his devastating touch. “You agreed to wait!”

He let his hand drop, relaxed again, but not a mite less dangerous. “Of course. Word of a Torrance. Until you unroll from your spiny ball and present your soft vulnerability. Willingly. Eagerly—”

“Eagerly?”
It came out on a breath, a whisper. With just his eyes, his remarkable eyes and his big body, his long legs dominating the space, his wide shoulders filling her vision, with just these things, without touching her, she knew that he was halfway to the kill.

There was one way to cut this short, but she had to look away to say the words. “I think it would be better if we consummated the marriage tonight, my lord.”

Silence stretched. “You think that the safer option?” She didn't have to look to know that his eyes were dancing with humor. “If I come to your bed tonight,” he said, very softly, but every word clear, “it will be no
simple matter. I will seduce you, Lady Saxonhurst. Seduce in every meaning of the word.”

She shivered again. She'd thought it would be simple. They would go to bed together, both in their nightgowns. He would do the necessary, then turn over and go to sleep, suitably appreciative of her calm acceptance of her unpleasant duty.

The kisses involved would be light and respectful, and there would not be any touching of ears or necks, or any sense of danger, of something stealing the air all around and making her dizzy.

His hands touched her shoulders, sending a jolt right through her. He turned her to face him. “If we are to be intimate so soon, we really must begin. A proper consummation takes time. A great deal of time. Prepare yourself, Lady Saxonhurst, to be kissed.”

She expected to be seized, assaulted even, but he used only a finger to raise her face to his. His lips only brushed gently over hers. The aura, however, the greater reality he seemed able to summon, fell over her like a heavy mist, making her breath falter.

How could he do this to her with just a light kiss?

She would have broken away and protested, but pride would not let her. This was her idea—wasn't it?—to cut short his tormenting pursuit by immediate, coldblooded surrender.

Her blood was definitely not running cold.